


Like real people do

by thewritingotter



Series: Short ones [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Timey-Wimey, crowley is the patron saint of the heartbroken, we don't concern ourselves with timelines here!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25906087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingotter/pseuds/thewritingotter
Summary: Crowley’s sat in some forgetful little tourist trap (he likes tourist traps--these evil bland things taking advantage of those passing through), minding his own business, when a blonde woman crashes into the patio table across his, dark, thick mascara running down her large brown eyes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Short ones [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880071
Comments: 14
Kudos: 123
Collections: Clever Crossovers & Fantastic Fusions





	Like real people do

So here he’s sat in some forgetful little tourist trap (he likes tourist traps--these evil bland things taking advantage of those passing through), minding his own business, when a blonde woman crashes into the patio table across his, dark, thick mascara running down her large brown eyes. 

She wails, dropping her anguished face into her arms as she continues to sob openly. The other patrons turn their eyes politely from her, a few of them tittering from behind their small soft hands and wide half-hats, and really, Crowley is amused by the underappreciated chaos of it all: the uncaring apathy a whole lot of humans have come to adopt despite their obvious nosiness.

Still, he can’t stand crying blondes. 

He snaps his fingers at a transfixed waiter, taking their attention away from the blonde, and when they scurry over, Crowley asks them for a warm mug of hot cocoa. _Not too hot that it’ll burn_ , Aziraphale told him once whilst cradling his beloved winged mug, _but not too cold that the chocolate no longer blooms on the tongue. It’s a delicate balance_.

He’s a right gourmet snob, his Aziraphale. Crowley’s mouth stretches into a fond grin unbidden. Go- Sata- By Leeroy Jenkins, he does so love him.

The cocoa comes to him a touch too hot and too plain, and Crowley spares a quick nefarious miracle to cool it as he saunters over. And if a few marshmallows pop up, well, that’s just his absent-mindedness coming to play, isn’t it?

He drops the mug on the woman’s table, brown liquid sloshing over the brim, and sits messily on the metal chair across hers, gratified by the irritable screech only metal over granite makes. If he’s going to be this -- well not- not _nice_ , exactly -- this _involved_ , he might as well be a right nuisance about it. 

She looks up to the mug, up his skinny arm, and to his face. Gesturing to the perfectly warmed drink, Crowley says, “Well? Go on.”

Her brown eyes narrow, assessing, and she sits up with her nose turned upward and her thick eyebrows drawn in a frightful frown. There are dark streaks on her face, her lipstick smeared, and her hair is the sort of unkempt that only comes from running distraught fingers through it again and again -- and Crowley knows he shouldn’t be endeared by it, but the utter indignance on her face is so much like the one Aziraphale so often wears around unwanted customers that he lets out a small huff of amusement.

Her scowl deepens. “Are you having a go at me, mate?” Crowley raises his eyebrows. This is why he leaves being kind to Aziraphale -- no one ever accuses _him_ of having an ulterior motive in every conversation. “What,” she goes on, “you see a woman _making a scene_ ,” and here she sneers as if she’s been accused before, “and you think you can just swan in, play the white knight, and take- take advantage of her-”

Crowley holds a hand up. “I’m gonna stop you right there,” he says as comfortingly as he can, although he’s well aware that comfort isn’t his forte at all. “You’ve no idea how wrong that is.”

Her mouth flops open and closed like a fish before she manages to grit out, “Wrong?!”

“Engaged, me.” That same fond smile blooms in his face, and he takes a moment to run a finger across the black silicone band Aziraphale had proposed with. Weightless, flexible, unintrusive -- exactly the sort of thing Crowley goes for these days. “And I’m way too old for you. You’re what? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“I’m eighteen,” she says hotly, “and that’s never stopped anyone before.”

Ah. Crowley loves this world, really he does (and not only because it houses the being he loves the most in the whole of creation), but it can be a right dick sometimes. Settling on his arms, he draws closer to her, pointing out to the street when her blonde head only tilts confusedly. “Look,” he whispers conspiratorially, “there’s a tenner on the sidewalk.” She frowns. “Any second now a bloke is going to- oh, yes, there’s one. He’s gonna try to pick it up but…” 

On cue, a short man in a cardigan bends to pick the tenner up, only for it to somehow slip from his gasp. He sighs, trotting over to where the bill’s landed, tries to pick it up again when another strong breeze picks it up and carries it away. Disgruntled, the man runs to it, and just short of where it is, another breeze sends it sailing a few feet away. Now clearly irritated, the man approaches the bill cautiously, as if it were some anxious creature, and the closer he draws the wider a grin stretches on his mousy little face. The tenner’s still there when he reaches it, and it stays unmoving when he bends down. He’s so close, so, so close. 

His fingers slowly, carefully, close over the bill, but just shy of him finally having his prize, another stronger breeze gusts by and it neatly steals the tenner from him, taking it away and sending it back to where it originally was. 

The man’s mouth drops open, gobsmacked, and with a frustrated grunt and an irritated dismissive wave at the bill, he stomps away.

Crowley snickers as he settles back on his seat. That was so utterly satisfying.

“Was t-that-” she turns to him accusingly, “was that you?”

He shrugs messily, “Was what me?”

“The tenner, and the- the-” she waves an arm out, “the everything!”

“Can’t say,” he says, fixing his glasses over his nose, “it’s a mighty windy day today, isn’t it?” It isn’t.

She falls back against her chair. “Well I- I mean. I suppose this day can’t get any weirder, can it?”

Crowley shrugs again. He’s learned not to tempt fate like that -- days _can_ get weird or worse or better with the right people involved. “That was fun though, wasn’t it?”

“It was mean!” she protests.

“Pfft, come off it, be honest!”

“That poor man and his- his-”

“His cardigan?”

“What if he really needed that tenner?” she asks challengingly. “What if he’s got a- a starving family, starving _children_ , and he needs to feed them?”

“Then it would’ve behaved itself,” Crowley says matter-of-factly. He’d started adding this clause early in the Victorian Era, when starving children were quite common in the streets. She’s still eyeing him quite dubiously. “Look, it was funny though, wasn’t it? Him and his flappy little cardigan chasing after a tenner in the street.”

That somehow startles a laugh from her. “I mean, I suppose-”

He waves a dismissive hand at her. “Ah, you wouldn’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? It was a childish little-”

“Childish!”

“Childish!” She repeats firmly. “It’s hardly like- like Jimmy Carr, isn’t it?” 

“Jimmy Carr!” She laughs. “Jimmy Carr! Well, it’s a right privilege being compared to a comedian going to hell, I suppose.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just because he’s on telly-”

“It is _not_ because of that.” Dagon likes busting people for not paying their taxes, is all, but Crowley supposes this isn’t the time to tell a human girl that. 

She laughs again. “Rose,” she says by introduction, taking the mug of cocoa. 

“Crowley,” Crowley says, nodding at her. “So, what’s got you all-” he gestures out, encompassing her whole untidy attire, “all like this, Rose?”

“What’s this, an inquisition?” she asks, with less of the accusing tone she used earlier. There’s a thin foamy cocoa mustache over her lips, and he hands her a miracled table napkin. She nods in thanks, dabbing at her mouth as delicately as Aziraphale would. “Tell me about your wife,” she says.

“Husband.” After a brief pause he corrects himself, “fiance.”

“Sorry,” she says with the expression of someone who’d like to be better about these things.

Crowley shakes his head. “S’alright,” he says. “To answer your question, he’s, frankly-” ah, how to put into words just how much Aziraphale impresses him everyday, “he’s an angel. Literally.”

She smiles at him, amused. “An angel?” she teases. “Didn’t peg you for the soppy sort.”

He scoffs. “You obviously haven’t read the bible. Angels are _warriors_ of heaven -- big, nasty, sword wielding buggers. Smite now, ask questions later. But my Aziraphale,” he smiles softly, “he was a warrior, you know, strong and sword wieldy. But he’s also the sort to give his sword away just ‘cause someone’s expecting and it’s cold out and they’d need to defend themselves. He carries spare change with him everywhere in case someone is in need of some money or a magic trick, and he thinks that the world is worth saving even if- well, if not for the things he loves but for the people and things he has yet to love. He would gladly trust you even if you were- even if you were an evil lying demon who may have ruined paradise for everyone.”

“He sounds- he’s a good person,” she says. 

“The best.” He caresses his silicon band again. “The most brilliant angel of the lot.”

“And you’re an evil, lying demon.”

He beams. “The _worst_ evil, lying demon.”

“Sounds like this Ezra Fell-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Whatever!” she huffs. “He wouldn’t just get it on with an evil, lying demon.” 

“Maybe he has terrible taste in men,” Crowley says, amused. 

She wrinkles her nose. “Demons don’t just buy distraught girls cocoa, you know.” He shrugs. “I- well, thank you, really. It helps.” She takes a sip.

“Don’t mention it.” She rolls her eyes. “Really, don’t,” Crowley goes on. “My reputation is in tatters as it is! Shacking up with a--a proper good angel like this.”

“Oh no!” She mock laments. “He’s gonna make an honest woman out of you!” She frowns. “Honest _man_. Honest man out of you.”

“Demon.” She rolls her eyes again. He is sorely tempted to dip his glasses down to show her his eyes, but he decides against it. She’s good company, Rose. He quite likes unnecessary defiance. Still: “The stuff of nightmares, me.”

“Right.” She takes another sip of cocoa, humming pleased. Across the street, the tenner victimises a sharply dressed woman in heels this time. “How did you two meet?”

“Oh you know, the usual,” Crowley says, “man meets man in a garden, man one falls in love with man two’s generosity and obvious lack of self preservation, man two is nervous and unsure but keeps him from the rain anyway.” Crowley rests his face against a hand.

“Specifically vague, I see,” she says. “I take it you’re man one?” Crowley hums _yes_. “How did you- well obviously, you were quite taken with him from the start.”

“I was _very_ taken,” Crowley says. “You should’ve seen him, Rose, bright and pretty as anything. Eyes like the sky and hair so brilliant it puts the sun to shame, and he was so kind and sweet and considerate and-” Catching the soft, yearning smile on her face, he clears his throat, embarrassed. “Er, anyway. Poets would say it was love at first sight.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I hate poetry.”

“So do I.” After a beat, “except for the funny ones.”

“There are funny ones?”

“There once was a man from Nantucket-”

“Oh, god, _stop_!” He grins at her. “You’re the worst.”

“Told ya.”

“How did he fall in love with you?” she asks. “Since you were already so far gone.”

Crowley smiles, eyes drawn to his ring again. Something soft and warm spreads across his chest. “Slowly,” he says, “far too slowly. He hasn’t really got a good, supportive family unit, and he knew- well, we were meeting in secret but he knew they would destroy me if they caught wind of us. He held back to protect me, that sod. But when he fell in love he-” _I couldn’t stop loving you_ , Aziraphale had whispered in confession the night after the Apocalypse that didn’t. “I saved his books, you see,” Crowley continues. “I saved him, but more importantly, I saved his books too. That was, he said, the moment he realised how much he loved me.”

“That must hurt,” she says, “having to wait for him to come around.”

“But he did eventually, is the thing,” Crowley says. 

“And it was worth it?”

“Very much so.”

“And you seemed happy.”

Crowley flushes, and he turns away even as he can’t help the smile on his face. “Very much so,” he repeats.  
  
“I wish I had something like that.” She sips at her cocoa again, and if it weren’t for the way her hands tremble, Crowley would’ve missed the sob inching its way up her throat. 

“You will,” he says, trying to channel Aziraphale’s comforting ways. “And even if you don’t there’s value in being happy by yourself-”

“No, I don’t think I will!” She exclaims suddenly, dropping her mug in a sort of frustrated finality. “I don’t think I’ll ever find my Azra Phil-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Whatever! I’ll never find anyone like him who will love me even if I weren’t the worst evil, lying demon, when I’m so,” her breath catches, “when I’m so _me_.” She sobs, hiding her face in her hands.

“Oh, Rose,” Crowley says, producing another, cleaner, napkin for her. She takes it gratefully, even if all she does is clutch at it with an angry fist. “What’s so wrong about you?”

“It’s- everything I’m just some stupid girl who grew up in some stupid estate a-and I-” She sobs again. 

“Nothing wrong with growing up in an estate,” Crowley says gently.

“I met a boy, see,” Rose goes on, “a man much older than me. He promised me music and travelling a-and passion, and- you’ve got to understand. He was lovely, Jimmy, and very, very cool -- the sort of cool people get when they don’t care about how cool other people think they are -- and well. His offer was just so interesting, you know, for someone who’s only been ‘round the estate and ‘round London.” Crowley scowls. He knows a temptation when he hears one. “I was a right fool.”

“Some people are just good at it, manipulation.”

“I wouldn’t have been tricked if I’d been more clever-”

“Stop,” Crowley says. He takes her hand, squeezing it gently. “Stop.” And when she looks up, he continues, “I’ve seen very clever people controlled and manipulated because they were promised love. You’re not at fault here.”

“You don’t know the whole story,” she says.

“I suppose I don’t. I’ve just… I’ve been around for too long.” He lets her go as he sits back, nodding for her to continue.

“Well, he was right about the music,” she goes on, “day in and day out, that’s all he did. He plays for the local band, you see, and they’ve only got one bar paying for them. They’re not _bad_ just-”

“Come off it, they must’ve been!”

She smiles. “They were terrible,” she admits. “The travelling, the passion? No, all I got instead was a shitty bedsit and a man who made me his maid.” Her hands clench into angry fists, tears drying on her hot face. “Wouldn’t even make his own food, no, not Jimmy, not when he has _music_ he ought to be writing at this _very moment, Rose_ ! The gall on him- t-the gall-” She pauses to breathe deeply. “And then he left me! That bastard! That disgusting _fucking_ bastard! Took my computer and my money and my ex-mate Nosh with him to Amsterdam!”

“I take it back,” Crowley says, frown so deeply etched in his forehead, “I’m not the worst evil, lying demon.”

“No,” she says, “he’s- he’s _way_ ahead of you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says in commiseration.

She shakes her head. “Not your fault,” she says, “but you know what the absolute worst thing is?”

Crowley shakes his head. He miracles her cocoa warm and comforting.

“I-” her eyes mist over, and Crowley reaches over to squeeze her hand again. “I still miss him!” she wails with a loud sob. “He’s a lazy cheating bastard, but I still miss him and-” she wipes at her face angrily, “and I just can’t stop- was I not good enough for him? Was I too- too- Nosh is gorgeous you see, and far more clever and talented with a keyboard. Me, I’m- I’m just plain, stupid Rose. Can’t be good enough even for some shitty asshole.” She cries again, head thumping harshly against the table as she hides it in her arms.

“Oh, Rose,” Crowley says gently, stroking her arm comfortingly. Aziraphale had done this to him once, when he was recounting what had gone on during the Spanish Inquisition. It made him feel better, and he hopes he can make Rose feel better with this too. “Rose, you know that wasn’t about you-”

“How can it not be,” she says hotly, voice muffled from behind her arms, “when he left _me_ for _her_?”

“This is all on him,” he tells her, “all on him and his terrible music and your mate Nora who doesn’t know how to be a good mate to anyone.”

She peers balefully at him, large brown eyes glistening with more tears. “I’m too ordinary, he told me once,” she whispers. 

Crowley scoffs at this. “Being ordinary isn’t a character flaw at all! Being a lying bastard is.”

“But that just means I’m nothing special at all! Not even special enough to keep around for.”

“What do you- not special, really!” Crowley gasps, gobsmacked. Rose sits up in surprise at his outburst. “You humans and your- not special!”

“You don’t need to go on about it,” Rose says sadly.

“No, you-” He takes her hands, “You listen to me, and you listen well, old girl.” She nods at him hesitantly. “The best thing God has ever made, the most incredible and most amazingly special thing She’s ever created were ordinary people. All of you lot who wake up and work and eat and come home bone tired and still manage to make the time to spread all your love and happiness in all the smallest ways. You’re why this wonderful world exists, you’re why it continues to turn. You’re why She made all of this.” He smiles at her wide eyes and slack mouth. “You’re why the world will go on protected. Not special, what a ludicrous idea!”

“But I- thank you,” she says. “I suppose, I mean I still-”

“You’ll find it, whatever you’re looking for,” he tells her, “as long as you go on looking. Maybe it’s soon, maybe it’s a lot later. But you’ll get there in the most ordinary and most unremarkable way possible, even if what it is will be the most special thing in the world for you.”

“Like what you have with Aziraphale.”

Crowley thinks about them, about how Aziraphale was an ordinary Principality with no proper sword to wield about, whose idea of thwarting evil wiles is inviting perfectly ordinary demons to oysters and brown wine, and how Crowley, a plain (but sexy) demon who had never cared about the multiple plaques Hell bestowed upon him despite never having a hand on any of the disasters humans caused themselves, had managed to fall in love with this ordinary angel and had gone on loving him patiently despite his own penchant for speed and impatience -- a love he will forever cherish in his dark little heart. 

“Look at you, you got his name right!” he cheers.

She beams. “Only right when you keep going on about him.”

“Oi! You keep asking!” 

She laughs. “Thank you,” she says, “really I mean it. For the chocolate and the- this. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Really, don’t.”

“I-” she bites his lip. “I hope I find my Aziraphale.”

He huffs a laugh out. “I hope you don’t have to wait a millenia for them to come around.”

She chuckles. “No. I’d be as old as you then, won’t I?”

“Oi!”

They spend the day ribbing each other and he miracles her cocoa everytime it gets too cool. He’s not entirely sure she hasn’t noticed, although she nudges her mug closer to him whenever it drops to anything less than pleasantly steaming. Rose hasn’t done any proper travelling before, he learns, and he delights in telling her about everything he’s seen in his very long lifetime. He leaves out some important details, obviously, like how he’s only been to France in 1793, and that was only to save Aziraphale. She questions him sometimes, finding more contradictions than he’d like, and he gets the feeling that she’s beginning to know him more than she lets on. It’s sort of nice, he thinks in the midst of a small row about when disco was properly integrated in the music scene, having a mate like this. 

In the end, they exchange numbers, promising to meet up for cocoa like this again, and she leaves Crowley when she finishes the last dregs of her chocolate. _Gotta get back to mum_ , she'd said, _she misses me when I’m gone_. 

The pink-orange hues of sunset are just starting to paint London when he feels Aziraphale manifesting. He hears soft flaps of angel wings and the sharp steps of his ancient shoes, and a kiss is dropped on his temple. When Crowley looks up, Aziraphale beams sweetly at him, as if he's something precious and important. 

Crowley's been in love with this lovely angel for six thousand years, but his heart still skips a beat whenever Aziraphale smiles at him like this, and a warm blush suffuses his cheeks as he grins back. 

Aziraphale settles next to him, close enough for their arms to brush. They watch yet another well-dressed person chase after his tenner, and when it settles back again to its original spot, Aziraphale links their arms and rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley kisses the top of his curly head.

“Had a good day, old fellow?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley hums. He crooks a finger and the tenner flies neatly into his palm. 

“Good.”

“You hungry, angel?”

“Absolutely famished.”

“Well, may I tempt you for a spot of tea?” 

Aziraphale looks up to him. “As if you needed to ask,” he teases Crowley, and oh, Crowley can’t help kissing him for that. Aziraphale’s lashes flutter close, even though he doesn’t make it any deeper. PDA was, after all, very much a hellish invention. 

“Shall we?” Crowley asks when they part. Aziraphale nods, a dazed smile on his lips, and they stand to make their way to wherever Aziraphale fancies. Crowley leaves his tenner on the table for that attentive waiter.

All in all, it was a good, ordinary day.


End file.
